Chute de la Grace

Chute de la Grace

I slam my bloody wrists against
The lining of your soul
We laugh for a while until death steals my smile
A hyper conceptual suicide

Formality, formality, destruction of the modern man
Dissection of an artist
Too many misplaced ideologies, no enough symbolicy
Pain ported imperfect

Fingertips drip with chains of insanity
Rolling down the drain
Pink sorrow weeps, tombe en masse
Chute de la grace eternelle

Sliced wrists in a phone booth fall against
The lining of your soul
I laugh for a while, Death waits for my smile
And I'm finally going home